St Paul's Cathedral
by My Sweet Chaos
Summary: It's December, 1940. England has been standing alone against the Axis for six months. Germany has been bombing his major cities for three of those. With faith draining away, England seeks refuge in the only place he can- Saint Paul's Cathedral- and reflects on the nature of hope. One-shot, lots of angst.


A/N: What is this? I don't know. I was reading about WWII in my History textbook and I was about halfway through a paragraph about the Blitz when I realized that there was a period of time when there was no one to stand up to the growing German empire except for Britain- which is why they relentlessly bombed London for more than fifty days. Anyways, this popped out. It's kind of angsty.

I don't own Hetalia.

oOo

He huddles in St. Paul's Cathedral.

He is waiting for that one perfect hit, the one that will bring the timeless walls tumbling down. Germany is so efficient- he cannot imagine the building will be left standing, not after so many attempts to knock it out.

The bomb itself would not kill him- after all, he is not London, but England. But the Cathedral is a national symbol, a sign that somehow, after these violent attacks, the people of his war-torn country can pull themselves back onto their feet. If Germany destroys it, he destroys hope.

And without hope, who is England?

He _does_ hope, but only for his brothers. If England falls, the rest of the United Kingdom will either have to step up and take over, or fall as well. He hopes that when he dies, Scotland, Ireland, and Wales will be strong. For all their teasing about his relative youth, they never gained his level of power- power that they will need.

He hopes, also, for France- trapped under German influence-, for America, for China and Canada and all the Allies. He hopes that once he has died, they will avenge him by taking out the Axis, and he prays, even though he does not know whom he is praying to, that none of them will suffer what he has suffered.

He hopes for Italy, too innocent and silly to be in the Axis at all, only there because he is hopelessly in love with Germany. He hopes for Japan, who is just trying to become his own nation. He hopes that Germany will be freed from his cruel boss sooner rather than later.

He does not hope for himself. Blood stains the stones upon which he rests, and he knows that even if, by some miracle, St. Paul's remains standing, he cannot survive much more destruction. London is in ruins- the blood is pouring straight from his heart. One more attack of a similar magnitude to any previous, and he will fade away, broken, alone, curled into a ball on the cold stone floor.

As soon as night falls, the Luftwaffe will arrive. He estimates he has maybe two hours until the last light fades over the ocean.

He uses the hours to reflect. He has lived a long time, seen many strange, wondrous, terrifying things, fought and won, fought and lost. He has battled France relentlessly, for no other reason than desire for wealth, power, and other such trivialities. He wishes he could give France one last goodbye, since they have been basically in love for a thousand years.

His brothers- never, now, will he know whether they hate him or simply love to tease him cruelly. Sometimes it seemed like they cared about him, other times they wanted to kill him. One memorable time, Scotland chased him all the way to France's house with an axe. He smiles at the memory- not because it is pleasant, but because it is something he wants to remember- his family, friends, the wide impact he has had on the world.

A droplet of blood slides across his cheek. It feels like a tear.

Green eyes slide closed, looking at memories behind locked eyelids, reliving moment after moment when he, England, truly felt alive- great and powerful and clever. Times when he thought he could never be killed.

Hours pass. The sun sets.

Nothing happens.

England is not strong enough to move yet, but suddenly he feels a swell of hope- not for everyone else, but this time for himself. Death may come easily, but life- whatever the cost- is certainly worth living.

He waits, not daring to believe it true, but hoping so strongly it hurts. When the sun rises, he can feel his wounds- not healing, but staunched, ready to form deep scars- not a picture of his weakness, no, but proof that he is still alive. Germany has retreated, for whatever reason.

The British Empire may not encompass the entire globe anymore, but he refuses, even now, to allow the sun to set upon him. He stands, walks down the long aisle lined with ancient pews, and looks out through the open door upon the rubble. Everything has been destroyed- everything, that is, except for the Cathedral itself.

And he can _feel_ it. The hope stirring in the chests of all those people, those Londoners who refused to leave their city, hope that the bombing has stopped, that it is over and done. It wraps around him warmly like a blanket, and England smiles.

He will not die today.

oOo

A/N: There was no real point to this. I just really like England, I guess, as a character- he's so mean, but he has so many good (and bad) reasons for it that no one remembers. He's very complex, and it's useful that I know a lot of British history. Anyways, this is the first story I have posted on this account that isn't total fluff- so please let me know what you think!

Sweet Chaos


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